


The Perversions of Quiet Girls

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Breathplay, Come Kink, Dirty Talk, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Non-Linear Narrative, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy!Draco, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: “When I want the world to know I’m fucking you, Granger, you’ll be the first to know.” He grunted, digging his fingertips into her hip and leaning into her. “Right now, you’re mine.”Hermione is at a dead end in her career and her relationship, and her self worth has never been lower. Although she loves her job advocating for creature rights as a mid-level bureaucratic drone for Blaise Zabini's law firm, Hermione has found that it's more of an escape from her miserable relationship. However, one wizard sees through her carefully cultivated facade and offers her a deal that she can't resist: in exchange for funding research necessary to garner support on a piece of legilsation for creatures rights that she's been working towards the majority of her career, Draco Malfoy simply wants Hermione's company—and anything else she's willing to give him.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Cormac McLaggen, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 59
Kudos: 473





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *yeets this into the interwebs* 
> 
> Quick note: This fic will feature infidelity. If that is triggering for you, please don't read this! It is a significant and ongoing aspect of plot.

**The Perversions of Quiet Girls  
** _**Chapter 1**_

**After**

“Everybody is going to know we fucked in the loo.”

Draco's pace was languid, hands digging into the bow of her hips as he ground against Hermione. “Will they?” he asked, teeth grazing over the shell of her ear with a chuckle. “How would they know that, Granger?”

Her throaty chuckle cuts off in a moan at his sharp thrust, the movement pressing his pelvis against her clit. “They’ll have seen us follow each other in.” A particularly well-angled thrust sent gooseflesh racing down her arm as she panted, “Does that matter to you, Malfoy? Do you want your colleagues to know you’re fucking a dirty Mudblood?”

One of his hands left the juncture of her thigh, wrapping around her throat and squeezing gently. His eyes were heated, pools of molten grey that drew her in and sent her spiraling. With a roll of his hips, he brushed against the spot he knew drove her mad. “I don’t give a rat’s arse _who_ knows we’re fucking, Granger.” 

The pressure on her neck was delightful, shooting straight to her core, and her mouth dropped open as her vision darkened at the edges. There was something dark and alluring about the possessive growl of his tone, and she arched into him as he dropped his hand to her clitoris and flicked it in unrelenting strokes that drove her higher in time with the slap of his hips, forcing a torrent of begging from her. “Fuck, Malfoy, please. Right there.”

She was lost to him, rolling her hips against his as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. 

A knock at the door punctuated a thrust, and he forced his thumb into her mouth to silence her. The tangy taste of herself on it sent a fresh wave of desire through her, but she sucked the digit into the depths of her mouth, coiling her tongue around it obscenely and challenging him with her eyes.

“Occupied,” he called, slowing his movement just as she was about to tumble over the edge.

Zabini’s voice answered, a smirk evident in it. “Right. Mate, we’re heading round to Theo’s. Meet you there.” His footsteps retreated, echoing down the short hall.

“Such a good girl, keeping quiet on my cock.” The thrill of nearly being caught spurred him on, his thrusts bottoming out within her. “When I want the world to know I’m fucking you, Granger, you’ll be the first to know.” He grunted, digging his fingertips into her hip and leaning into her. “Right now, you’re mine.”

It was all she needed to collapse over that edge in a white-hot flash, his surname a breathy exaltation on her lips. His teeth latched onto the juncture of her neck and shoulder, shockwaves rolling through her. “Malfoy, please.”

He leaned back incrementally, a salacious smirk goading her at the desperation in her tone. “What do you want, Granger? Hmm?” His nose nudged her cheek as he slowed his movements to a snail’s pace.

Already, she could feel another orgasm building in her, his shallow thrusts increasing the pressure against her walls, but she found herself unable to tear away from him. His arms were trembling where they bracketed either side of her, his resolve clearly waning, and she snared him by a handful of hair, yanking his lips to hers.

It was a brutal, punishing kiss, both of them nipping and fighting for air, but it sent his hips snapping ruthlessly against hers again, the sound of flesh against flesh obscene enough to bring a bright flare of colour to her already flushed cheeks.

“So fucking good,” he murmured against her lips, breath fanning out over her face. Cinnamon, and perhaps a hint of honey on the back end. Forbidden. But gods she’d give anything— _everything_ —to drown in it. His hand rose, wrapping around her throat in a vice grip again. “What can you take?”

Breathless, she peered up at him, eyes fluttering closed as he increased pressure. She could nearly _feel_ the imprints his fingertips would leave, but she’d long abandoned the presence of mind to worry about concealing them.

Immediately, he eased the pressure and spots danced in her vision. "Eyes, Granger. Look at me."

She rasped a desperate breath in, staring at him intently. “Anything. Gods, just please don’t stop.”

And then he was gone, putting a chasm of space between them as he leaned back, lifting her legs and tossing one over each shoulder and bracing himself on her thighs. His thrusts stopped, his head notched in her entrance. “Anything?”

It took everything she had not to groan in despair—so close. She couldn’t manage a response—not when he was looking at her like that—so she nodded, pulling her lip between her teeth.

An arched brow jumped higher. “Use your words, Granger.” 

He was always like that—demanding, superior. _Sir_ , a traitorous part of her whispered. She was staring, mouth open as harsh pants escaped from her lips, but she couldn’t drag her gaze away from the sight of herself laid out before him reflected in the mirror. 

Following her gaze, he huffed a dark laugh, pistoning forward in an agonizingly slow roll of his hips. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.” It was a simple response, one that usually garnered further elaboration, but the way his gaze met hers in the mirror set a fire alight between them.

Tracing kisses up the inside of her ankle, he met her gaze in the mirror, charcoal smoke in the poor light. The fire in them was lit with his victory—he'd been waiting for this. For her to give him everything. “Merlin, you're perfect.” A sharp slap echoed through the space, and suddenly stars erupted behind her eyes at the sharp, deep thrust accompanying it. 

“Ah, ah.” He stilled again, leaving her teetering on the edge of satisfaction. “You’ve had your fun, don’t you think?”

Her chest was heaving beneath her thin dress, but she managed a quiet, “Yes, sir,” that sent a curling smirk up his cheeks. 

“You know what I want?” A dangerous drawl colours the question, one she knows better than to interrupt. “I want to come. I want to fill you all the way up. Would you like that?”

She squirmed, a low moan accompanying it as she tried to work him deeper, but he resisted, hands sliding down her legs to rest once more on her hips as he leaned over her, bending her double.

“I’m going to fill up this pretty little pussy,” he whispered, the promise kept between them as he worked one hand between them to trace over her mound. “And then I’m going to leave. You will return to your table with your friends and your _boyfriend_.” He sneered the last word. “And you will _ache_ for me, do you understand?”

A thrill of anticipation rocketed through her. Distantly, she recognised this game—he was jealous. Swallowing around the sudden realisation of the power she held, she jumped her hips incrementally. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl.” The endearment was her favourite, which he well knew. His own breathing was uneven as he stared down at where they connected. “You’re not to come.”

“Yes, sir,” she promised again, reverence in her tone as he slid back into her.

“My name.” He tore his eyes up to hers, more emotion than simple lust staring back at her. Emotions she couldn’t afford to put name to. “Say my name.”

The erasure of that barrier—the one erected for the safety of both their hearts—crumbled away as he sank into her, his fingers on her hips finding purchase in the coil of her own as she laced them together. “Yes, Draco. Oh gods, don’t stop.”

His restraint snapped; suddenly, he was pounding into her, the force of the movement driving her back across the counter until she was pressed against the mirror, their mingled breaths fogging the glass behind her head.

Her other hand raked down his back, nails piercing his skin even through the fabric of his t-shirt. “Fuck, Hermione.” A prayer, her name spilled from his lips as he buried himself within her as he came, forehead collapsing against hers as wisps of white-blond hair fair between them. 

She was so close, swollen and wanting, but she refused to break that promise to him.

Refused to shatter that fragile trust.

And she couldn’t breathe, not for the way he was staring into her eyes as though she was the salvation for every horrible act he’d ever committed. 

And maybe she was.

He’d certainly saved her, as it were. 

A thousand words lingered on her tongue, praise she’d love to shower him with, but his gaze shuttered. With a hiss, he eased out of her, attention locked on where their bodies connect.

Hermione felt empty as soon as he withdrew, her body begging to regain that fullness, but Malfoy was transfixed, slowly lowering her legs from his shoulders to rest on the countertop. When his finger trailed over her again, her body jumped of its own accord.

“So responsive,” he murmured. “So beautiful.” 

And then he tended to her. Summoning a towel from the dispenser, he wet it, running the rough material over the crest of her legs, wiping away their shared sweat but stopping short of the apex of her thighs and the evidence of their coupling. He ran the cool rag over her forehead, eyes catching her own as he cared for her. 

Hermione wanted to reach out, to stop his hand and lace it within her own again, but that had never been part of the deal, had it? 

They'd held hands before, but never with the emotional intent that she was driven by.

A quick fuck when either of them needed it. Companionship and care that Cormac had never offered her. That was all this was.

Feelings were strictly out of bounds.

So why did it feel like so much more tonight?

Finally, he set the rag aside, summoning and repairing the shredded knickers he’d promptly ripped from her body upon entry of the loo. He worked them up her legs, indicating for her to lift her bum, and settled them in place around her waist. Finally, he looked up at her. “Go enjoy the rest of your evening with your friends. Smile prettily at them, talk about whatever mundane thing you former Gryffindors enjoy.” He reached up, freeing her lip from between her teeth. “And the whole time, I want you to think about me dripping from inside you.” Leaning closer, he nuzzled her hair away from her head and clamped lightly down on her earlobe, sending another wave of desire through her. “And when you get home, I want you to get yourself off thinking about me inside you.”

With that, he pulled her dress down over her hips and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her skin one final time.

Before she could open her eyes, he was gone, the door falling shut behind him. 

Her heart pounded in her ears as she eased herself upright and slid off the countertop. Already, she could feel a bit of dampness in her knickers, and she rubbed her thighs together absently as she withdrew her wand with shaking fingers.

He always left her in a state. Her hair was mussed, the careful curls she’d cultivated before leaving the house haloed around her head, and deep, mottled love bites and bruises encircled her neck like a choker. Nimble fingers prodded at them as she smiled at the reflection. Malfoy liked to leave his mark, and he liked even more to see them when he claimed her.

Malfoy was exactly what she needed. 

Steadying her hand, she directed her wand to her neck, carefully weaving a glamour to conceal the bruising as it rose. Another charm mostly repaired the damage he’d done to her hair. She moved to reapply a thin layer of lippie but paused, eyeing herself in the mirror with a private smile.

Kiss-bitten, her lips were rosy and inviting, a bit plumper than usual after the traded nipping. 

She rather thought it suited her.

Finally, she reached into her purse, palming her mobile as she pulled the door opened, and she exited much the same way Malfoy had.

There was a spring in her step that hadn’t been there before, not unnoticed when she slid into the bench seat across from Harry, Ron, and their dates.

“Hermione, took you long enough. We were getting worried,” Ron groused, lifting his beer to his mouth.

She shrugged him off, placing her mobile down on the table. “It was an important call. You know how my mum is if I don't answer immediately.” Over Ron’s shoulder, Malfoy stalked to the bar, waving down the bartender to obtain his tab. He turned, propping his hip against the countertop as his gaze pinned her to the spot. 

A familiar flicker of warmth shot through her core. _And when you get home, I want you to get yourself off thinking about me inside you._

She shivered delightfully, but Harry frowned. “‘Mione, you okay? You look flushed. Are you sick?”

The bench shifted again, an arm slung around her shoulder tucking her into the newcomer’s side.

Grass, mint toothpaste, and polished leather. Scents she’d once thought were her forever. “She saw me come in; can’t blame a bird for blushing when she sees her man.” Cormac placed a wet kiss to her cheek, centimetres from Malfoy’s parting kiss.

At the bar, Malfoy's gaze hadn’t left hers. His eyes darkened, a possessive glint deep in their depths as he stared back at her. 

Finally, she managed to break the tension between them, smiling and leaning into Cormac the way a proper girlfriend should, but the motions felt mechanical. 

_Such a good girl, Granger._

Swallowing, Hermione reached for the beer Cormac offered as Malfoy strutted by the table, head held high and back proudly straight as he ignored her. 

Just like they’d agreed upon.

Except… 

Except she wasn’t sure she wanted what they had agreed upon anymore.

She wanted _more_.

“It was a long phone call, but I’m glad to be here with you all! It's nice to see you guys; I know the Auror department demands a lot of your time. And Quidditch, for Cormac,” she added belatedly, tracing her finger around the edge of her glass. She forced a brittle smile as Cormac pressed another perfunctory kiss against the crown of her head.

He enjoyed playing the role of doting boyfriend when they were out with friends.

Already, though, her presence had been dismissed as the boys descend into discussion over the latest Quidditch scores. Harry and Ron’s dates fell into private discussion, turning away from the table. 

Reaching up to fiddle with her phone, Hermione tried not to hyper-fixate on the nuances of the possessive holds she’d experienced in the last twenty minutes.

Malfoy, worshipping her body and giving her space to retreat to while he controlled everything, giving her the reprieve her mind needed. Caring for her afterward with measured, careful passes of the rag. Fingers wrapped tightly around her throat, fire in his eyes.

Cormac, arm slung haphazardly around her body, pulling her into him like a child forcing the north poles of two magnets together. His too-loud voice shouted overtop the music playing, a rough hand sliding up and down her arm as he sipped absently from a pilsner glass. Sloppy kisses.

She didn’t want this anymore..

And maybe Malfoy wasn’t ready to go public with their pseudo-relationship, but that didn’t mean she had to settle for whatever _this_ was

Hermione pulled back, sliding her phone into her purse even as the boys continued chattering to each other. It was Harry who looked at her first and lifted a brow. “‘Mione, you okay?”

Canting her head, she stood and lifted her purse to her shoulder. “Now that you mention it, I’m feeling a bit peaky.” She shrugged and backed away, adopting an apologetic frown even as her knickers seeped, stickiness clinging to her legs and exacerbating her desire to get home. “I really ought to go lie down—rain check, I promise.”

Harry didn’t look as though he believed her, but he nodded anyway, turning back to the table after a quiet good-bye. Cormac waved absently as he and Ron sparred over statistical differences between the Ballycastle Bats and Chudley Cannons. 

Fury flared up in her as she stared down at the man who claimed to love her, who hadn't even be bothered to hide his affair from her and whose total disregard for their relationship had sent her running from him at the first opportunity she got with Malfoy. 

Maybe it was because she could still feel the warmth of her orgasm settled low in her belly. Perhaps it was that Draco Malfoy’s come coated the insides of her thighs in a delightful little secret. Either way, she’d reached her breaking point.

Straightening her spine, she cleared her throat. “We’re over, Cormac.” 

Awkward silence fell over the table. All five sets of eyes turned to her as though she’d announced she had grown nifflers from her ears.

She couldn’t find it in herself to be bothered.

“‘Mione, what do you mean?” Cormac’s face twisted into a pleading smile, eyeing her over the beer he cradled. His affected innocence couldn't hide the fury growing in his eyes; his reputation was _everything_ to him, and he'd resent her for ending it in public. Good. He cleared his throat. “We’re so good together. I know Quidditch isn’t your thing—”

“It has nothing to do with Quidditch; I’m just not happy. We’re _done_ ,” she emphasised, backing away. “If you’d like to discuss it further, you know where my flat is.”

He wouldn’t follow her—of that much she was sure. He’d never taken her seriously, not at Hogwarts, not when they reconnected through the Ministry. Not when he'd decided he'd grown tired of her and sought excitement in a much younger girl who didn't know what she was getting into.

It was liberating, really. To walk away from a dead-end relationship with the world at her feet. A world that, inexplicably, included Draco Malfoy. 

Heart in her throat and desire rising within her once more, she darted to the door of the pub, down the street, and to the Apparition point. 

She’d barely made it inside her flat before she’d discarded her bag and dropped into her chair, dipping into her knickers and bringing herself off with Malfoy’s name on her lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notice: this chapter alludes to intimacy between Cormac and Hermione, but it is not depicted in detail.

**The Perversions of Quiet Girls  
** _**Chapter 2** _

**Before.**

Hermione sat at her desk, quill clasped between her lips as she went over the same mundane paperwork for the twelfth time that day.

The Ministry-appointed secretary had failed, once more, to complete the paperwork to the specifications that Hermioen had  _ very clearly _ outlined for her earlier in the day.

A knock sounded at the door. Two wraps, steady and sure. Unfamiliar from any other who would opt to visit her office at—she checked the clock—ten after eleven. 

Peculiar. 

A welcome distraction, however.

She straightened, threw her hair over her shoulders, and carefully rebuttoned the top clasp of her blouse. No matter how many cooling charms she cast over her office, it always warmed uncomfortably when the sun began to crest on the west side of the building.

"It's open," she called, carefully arranging her quill alongside the others.

The door swung open, obscuring the visitor's face, but their silhouette cut a striking figure against the backdrop of the office.

For just a moment, panic flitted through her. It looked like Cormac, but... she flickered her gaze to the calendar adorning the wall just above her desk. He wasn't due for another hour and a half for lunch. And given his inability to arrive anywhere on time, he would amble in after her lunch break was already half through and she'd already carefully packed away whatever remained in her tupperware.

"Miss Hermione Granger, yes?" The individual stepped further into her office, revealing their face.

She knew him. Or, rather, she recognised the horn-rimmed glasses that rested on his nose and provided a slight distraction from his viper-like tongue. Blaise Zabini. He was a notorious flirt around the office—everyone knew who he was, or they'd heard about his tendency to seduce anyone on legs, regardless of gender identity—but Hermione had yet to meet him. 

Still, she rose from her desk and rounded it, proffering her hand. "Hermione, please, if you don't mind." 

Instead of grasping her hand in a handshake as she expected, he dipped low, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Don't mind if I do." His eyebrows waggled in what she assumed was supposed to be some kind of appealing gesture, but Hermione rather thought he looked like he was attempting to dislodge a particularly annoying pest.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Mister Zabini? If I'm not mistaken, I don't have a meeting set with you today." Her heels clicked across the floor, punctuating her retreat.

It was a power move, turning her back on the former Slytherin, but she wouldn't show him any weakness. She'd fought too hard to get to this position to give him any indication that he intimidated her.

Even if it was his company that she was a bureaucratic drone for. 

"Blaise, or Zabini if that's too informal," he corrected, settling uninvited into the posh leather armchairs on the opposite side of her desk. The coated lenses of his glasses glared obnoxiously, reflecting the desk before him.

Fake glasses. 

Interesting. Hermione catalogued the detail for later dissection, instead waving her wand to produce a new sheath of parchment, then selected her eagle-feather quill and posed it expectantly. "Zabini, then. To what do I owe the pleasure," she repeated, fighting to keep the suspicion from her voice. The interruption threw off her morning; silently, she mourned the loss of the time she could spend reviewing the creature case before it went to the floor.

Zabini tilted his head at her, following her careful flourish as she penned the date in the upper right-hand corner of the parchment. "Your annual review was scheduled for Friday with Madam Ackerly. If you check your schedule, you'll see that it has been removed." 

Starting, Hermione jerked her head to look at the calendar. It was true. Though she'd catalogued her work for the next week when she had arrived that morning, a gaping hole appeared on the Friday afternoon schedule. From one to three, the lime green post-it note she'd charmed with the meeting was blank, a jarring change to her week. 

Immediately, her mind jumped to the worst case scenario. "Have I done something wrong?" 

"On the contrary," Zabini answered, rapping his knuckles on the desk once as he leaned forward, carefully crossing his leg over his knee. "Your performance has been exceptional. Even for an undersecretary, you complete more work than most of the tenured solicitors in the company. It's unfortunate that we don’t have the funding required to promote you to a position which better reflects your skillset.." His lip curled around the words, clearly trying to temper any disdain she might feel towards him. "I'd like to see you in a corner office with full benefits, but I don't have the ability to make anything more than lateral promotions and meagre wage increases at the moment."

“Thank you, I think?” Hermione frowned to herself. She was well aware that her work was unparalleled in comparison with the rest of the office, and she often stayed well past the office's closing time. It wasn't a fact she was proud of, but between her lack of a social life and Cormac's busy schedule with the Falcons, she didn't exactly relish the thought of going home to an empty flat most days.

Working made it better.

Even if she had to sacrifice her work-life balance for it.

If Zabini realised she’d fallen into a pit of self-deprecation in her silence, he had the grace to ignore it. His face had taken on a distinctly grey shade, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a fine sheen of sweat had jumped to his brow. He looked almost nervous as he glanced towards the door. "The offer I'm about to make you is... a bit unorthodox." 

Warning bells pealed in the back of her mind, but she settled her quill on the desk, prepared to pounce. Those words never prefaced anything good. As subtly as she could, she flickered her gaze to the closed office doors. For once, she swore to herself about the frosted window that she usually was so grateful for.

Zabini seemed to follow her train of thought. "You're not in danger of being solicited, Miss Granger." His easy demeanor seemed to evaporate as he studied her. "At least not by me."

_ Not by him. _

Then by who?

She leaned back in her chair, torn between disgust and intrigue. The latter, though, outweighed the former. There was a reason the hat had tried to stick her with the Claws once upon a time. "There's a privacy charm on this office, Zabini. It's the nature of my job to discuss sensitive information here, and the charms prevent me from disclosing anything with parties who are not directly associated with the business unless that information puts me in mortal peril." 

The admission was perhaps too transparent—if he was bluffing and he  _ did _ intend to proposition her, then she'd provided him all the information he needed to act on it without fear of retribution.

Instead, he ticked his head to the side. "I have absolutely no interest in you sexually or otherwise, Granger, beyond the business transaction I've been requested to proffer on my client's behalf." 

Her spell on the room vibrated subtly, perceivable only by herself. He was telling the truth, but that knowledge didn't make her feel any easier about the situation. 

"And on whose behalf are you here?" she pushed, quill and parchment forgotten beneath splayed hands. Ink likely covered her palms, but she couldn't bring herself to be arsed. 

Zabini's lips flattened into a thin line. "I'm afraid I can't answer that until I ensure that you are at least willing to hear out the terms of the proposition upon my divulging the client's name." 

Hermione bristled, hands clenching slightly and wrinkling the parchment. "If my ability to conduct affairs impartially is in question, Zabini, then it’s likely best for the both of us if I hand in my resignation; then, at least, you could deliver this ‘proposition’ with a bit more propriety than doing so in a workplace setting.” She flicked a brow upwards, leaning into the defiance despite the way her heart raced at challenging her superior. “Now, I’ll ask once more: on whose behalf are you here?” 

Zabini's eyes were hard when he glanced back at her. His tongue darted out, a sharp contrast to his dark skin as he wet his lips. "Draco Malfoy." 

" _ Malfoy _ ?" Hermione huffed, incredulous. "And what in Merlin's name would Malfoy like from me? He won't even speak to me in the canteen when he’s here on business, much less spend longer than five minutes alone with me in a room."

Something like glee flickered across Zabini's face. "He'd like to pay you for your company," Zabini drawled, studying her closely. "If you'd prefer to discuss the particulars with him in person, you'll find that an appointment will be arranged for the end of day on Friday. If I’m not mistaken, your prior engagements will have been rescheduled in accordance with the memos I sent out before arriving." 

As he spoke, the post-it notes rearranged themselves, the ink flashing gold before drying with the rescheduled times. Zabini opened his palm and released a square of heavy parchment, which affixed itself to her calendar: 3PM—Draco Malfoy. Its shimmering silver font flickered in the light. Proposed but not confirmed.

Spluttering, she turned to Zabini. "I'm sorry, but what in Merlin's name  _ is _ this. You waltz into my office, inform me of a cancelled meeting that is essential to the development of my career, and then propose I engage in a sexual relationship with a former schoolmate who used to—"

"Not sexual, Miss Granger," Zabini corrected again, then grimaced, "unless the both of you so choose for it to be. At the moment, he'd like to spend time in your presence—but there is no obligation. It will be mutually beneficial—in exchange for spending time with him, he’s agreed to fund the research necessary for the creature legislature. If you would like to discuss the situation further, I advise you to attend the meeting." From within his pocket, he withdrew a nondescript hair hair clip. “Should you choose to attend, this Portkey will activate five minutes before you’re due to meet with Draco.”

Hermione eyed it dubiously but made no move to pick it up.

He checked his wristwatch then swept upright. "Unfortunately, I think my time with you is drawing to a close. I've a meeting that I'm due at."

Hermione's mind spun. She couldn't decide which of the hundreds of questions that flew rapid-fire through her brain to ask, and the uncertainty left none of them voiced. Instead, as he walked away from her, she croaked out, "And what about my annual review?"

Zabini paused, his back to her. "It would have been a quick meeting anyway; you know how Madam Ackerly is." The truth of the statement didn't negate the frustration roiling in her stomach. "Consider your performance to have exceeded expectations. You'll receive the usual offer of salary increase via owl, which you are free to negotiate as usual." 

Without further discussion, he disappeared from the room, leaving Hermione with a lead weight in her stomach and a fair amount of curiosity.

* * *

For the rest of the afternoon, the Portkey lay before her on the desk, unassuming but imposing nonetheless. 

Three o'clock on Friday, Zabini note said. 

That left her a little over seventy-two hours double check to decide whether she'd even entertain his offer.

In the meantime, she had work to complete.

Except, no matter how hard she tried to focus on the work before her, her gaze wandered back to the hair clip Portkey. After yet another meeting that could have been summarised in a memo and sent out via owlpost, Hermione abandoned all pretenses of productivity. 

Every way she tried to dissect the situation left her with more questions than answers. Why did Malfoy want to spend time with him? Was it some kind of morbid fascination with the office's pet Mudblood? Maybe he wanted to torment her more than he had in school.

But even that explanation didn't make sense. Even though their interactions in the office were brief, he'd never been anything but polite, if a little reserved, to her in their professional interactions.

He'd even held the office door for her that morning, for Merlin's sake.

Cormac's arrival just five minutes before the end of her work day didn't even garner her undivided attention. He rushed into her office a mess of mud and sweat, apparently having come straight from practice—or maybe it was a game. She couldn't be arsed to keep track anymore, if she were entirely honest.

"Sorry I'm late; practice ran longer than expected." So the former then. He dipped in to press a kiss to her cheek, his lips chapped and cold from the wind he'd flown through before coming to her office. 

Hermione gestured noncommittally to the chair that Zabini had vacated a mere hours before. "It's alright; I assumed." 

He stiffened at her frosty tone, but he rolled his shoulders, obviously trying to reign in his temper. It was more than he usually attempted, Hermione had to give him that. "I'm sorry, 'Mione. You know how it goes."

She didn't, not really. Quidditch was just one of several facets of their relationship that she didn't take much interest in, and though she should have felt guilty for being a poor excuse for a girlfriend, the sentiment was reciprocated when it came to her "stuffy little job" at the firm.

About the only part of it Cormac appreciated was the tight pencil skirts she wore into the office. 

"Right," she muttered, trying to keep the wrinkle from her nose as he sullied her leather chairs, and she cast about for a subject both of them could navigate with the least amount of discomfort. "Harry and Ron owled. They want to know if we want to meet up with them and the girls at the Candle & Stocking for drinks this weekend. Since you don't have a game."

The latter part she'd been unaware of until Harry had mentioned in the letter. Truthfully, Cormac was gone more often than not, and some distant part of her was aware that not all of the weekends he spent away were because of Quidditch.

Perhaps she should have been upset, but if she were honest, she couldn't find it in herself to care. 

"Can't," he muttered through a mouthful of salami sandwich. "Team retreat."

He wouldn't look her in the eyes, instead fixating his gaze on the wall up and to the left of her ear. Close enough to eye contact, but not convincing enough to make her really believe it.

He'd grown lazy in recent months.

But she took it in stride. "I'll Floo Harry, then. Let him know I’ll be attending alone."

"It'll be good to spend time with Harry and Ron just the three of you," he responded, having already removed himself from the conversation without seeing it through.

Hermione hummed, eyes landing on the hair clip again. 

The more time passed, the more tempting the offer became. 

"I have a business meeting with Draco Malfoy on Friday." The words tipped from her lips before she could stop them, and from the corner of her eyes, she watched the appointment on her calendar flash from silver to gold.

Confirmed.

Somewhere on the upper floor of the offices, Malfoy's calendar would update too.

A private thrill raced up her spine. 

Cormac stopped chewing, eyes narrowed as he stared up at her, sandwich forgotten for a moment. After a thick swallow, he muttered, "What are you meeting with that tosser for?"

For a brief moment, she considered telling him what Zabini had said. 

Draco Malfoy wanted to spend time with her.

She’d be lying if she didn’t find particular draw in mentioning that it didn’t appear to be strictly the business meeting that he likely assumed it was.

She could just imagine the look of shock that would bulge Cormac's eyes. 

He'd probably be shocked that someone wanted to spend time with her for something more than to get between her legs.

Although Zabini had said that option wasn't  _ totally _ off the table. Not unless she made it so.

The way Cormac blinked at her, she wasn't sure she wanted to put a limit on—whatever this thing with Malfoy was.

Or might be.

She was getting ahead of herself.

"I'm not entirely sure," she said instead, picking up a quill just for something to do with her fingers. "Mister Zabini visited the office today. Malfoy requested my presence, and it's important, so—"

She let the end of the sentence hang between them. Certainly she'd conflated the appointment to be a bit more than it likely was, but Cormac didn't need to know that.

There was a certain thrill in the deception. Perhaps that's why Cormac continued to play cat and mouse with her instead of cutting her loose for whatever witch he'd started bedding on the side.

The thought used to light a fire of jealousy in her belly, prompting increasingly erotic encounters with her boyfriend, but those coals had long since gone cold as she stared at him over the top of her desk—it wasn’t worth the mental or physical gymnastics to be the witch he wanted her to be.

He opened his mouth, but the buzzer at the head of her desk sounded, her assistant buzzing in as she left for the day. “Miss Granger, the head of the DMLE is here to discuss the creature case if you have time; I know it’s the end of the day, but—." Her assistant let the sentence hang, unwilling to press the importance of the matter.

Saved by the bell.

Hermione silently thanked the gods for blessing her with an out. "Thank you, Eliza. Let me see Cormac out and I'll welcome Mister Barbary myself."

The chair creaked under her, punctuating the end of the conversation as Cormac balled up the paper wrapping of his sandwich. She peered at him over the desk, sorrow flitting through her for just a moment. She’d loved him once, even if it seemed like years ago. He’d loved her too. Perhaps that’s why she’d held on to this for so long. "Will you be home tonight?" 

Shoulders taut, Cormac nodded once, already backing towards the door. "I'll be there. Don't wait up."

Hermione hummed her acknowledgement, but he was already out the door and down the hallway before she could even round her desk.

In the few steps it took to reach the door, Hermione managed to affix a brilliant smile to her cheeks. "Mister Barbary, it's so good to see you. Thank you for stopping by. The creature coalition is pleased to have you on board."

She was pulling the door shut as she exchanged pleasantries with Mister Barbary when she felt the heavy weight of eyes on her. 

Draco Malfoy's smile was sinful as the doors to the lift closed, Cormac staring daggers across the small space.

* * *

Her shared flat with Cormac was the last place Hermione wanted to go when she left the office after a long analysis of the creature case with Mister Barbary, but it was the only thing she knew.

Carefully, she let herself into the small foyer, jangling her keys to call Crooks to her. He was frail and no less mouthy than he was at Hogwarts, but he still ran to her and curled around her ankles. 

She had just dropped her keys on the table when a door clicked open down the hallway.

Hair a mess, Cormac wandered towards her, eyes bleary. 

"Hermione?" 

Confusion flickered through her, and she discarded her purse. "Cormac? I thought you'd be late." 

"I  _ was _ late," he answered, gesturing towards the clock. To her surprise, it read after eleven. "You weren't home when I got here, so I thought—"

The accusation fell flat, neither of them willing to address the elephant in the room. Hermione shrugged out of her jacket, hanging it carefully on the wrack. "I'm sorry, it's been a long week. I guess I was more distracted than normal when I Flooed home. I didn't even check the clock before I left."

Suspicion still coloured his gaze, but he didn't press the issue. "Well, you're home now." He stalked towards her, taking in her outfit: pumps, a pencil skirt, and a plain white button-up blouse. "You look nice," he whispered, nuzzling into her.

"It's nothing fancy," she answered. But she still tilted her neck, allowing room for him to skate his nose down the column of her throat.

There were some times when she could forget that he barely acted like they had once been the centre of the other's universe. When he settled his hands on her hips and laved the pulse point on her neck like she wasn't just another witch he was going to bed.

Like she meant something to him.

It used to hurt, recalling their passionate beginning. It hadn't all been roses. Not when they first got together, not now.

In fact, it had never really been roses. 

Gods, they had fought. Loud, long shouting matches that would have brought the walls down if not for the silencing charms.

But the passion lent itself to the bedroom—once upon a time, at least.

Now, it barely kindled enough for a perfunctory romp once or twice a month. 

His lips ghosted over her tendon, sending a shiver of desire down her spine. When his teeth closed over the tendon and nipped lightly, she arched into him. 

She’d become adept at hitting all the right marks for him. It helped, at least, that he wasn’t so selfish as to leave her wanting in favour of his own pleasure. For all of Cormac’s shortcomings, he thrived on getting Hermione off if for no reason other than to gloat at his prowess to his mates. 

Her body remembered him, and most times, like tonight, she could forget that someone else's bed was cold from the loss of his warmth. 

This was safe—whatever it was. As long as neither of them addressed the ever-widening chasm between them, Hermione could go on pretending like nothing was wrong. 

She didn't want to analyse what that said about her.

And she certainly didn't want to consider the flash of grey eyes and wicked smile that flickered through her mind when Cormac picked her up and wrapped her legs around his waist. 

It was nothing more than the intrigue.

At least, that’s what she’d keep telling herself.

* * *

Hermione woke alone.

It wasn't a surprise; Cormac usually left before dawn to get to the pitch, but it did shake her harder than it typically did. 

She dressed in a daze, her mind far away in her office with a hair clip Portkey and the promise of a meeting that was becoming more and more alluring.

Hermione worked late the rest of the week, the Portkey a constant reminder and distraction in the upper right hand corner of her desk beside her paperweight. 

Depending on the hour, she would have a different decision. One hour had her determining that she would sweep it into the trash, but after another missed lunch with Cormac, she found herself digging it out of the depths of the garbage can. 

She hadn't seen Malfoy since the evening he and Cormac had left together in the lift. It was unnerving, walking around an office feeling like she was an unwitting prey, but it was exciting in a way she hadn't yet allowed herself to indulge in. 

If nothing else, she wanted to attend the meeting to see what had possessed Malfoy to proposition her so when they'd barely spoken more than ten sentences to each other in as many months. 

Finally, when Friday arrived and her meetings had culminated for the day, Hermione allowed herself to pick up the Portkey.

The hair clip was simple—far less flashy than she had expected of the Malfoy heir, who had a particular proclivity for the luxurious. Still, garnets were set into polished silver, each one winking under the lamplight. She had no doubt it was an antique. 

Yet another detail to examine in light of whatever this meeting would reveal.

That morning, Hermione had briefly debated bringing a change of clothes with her—what did one wear to a meeting with a former enemy turned coworker who was requesting her accompaniment for reasons unbeknownst to her after years of mutually ignoring one another beyond the required pleasantries? 

She hadn’t been able to determine an answer, so Malfoy would have to deal with her arriving in the clothes she’d worn to work. Even if she  _ had  _ chosen her favourite blouse and the heels that were a couple inches taller than her normal choice in footwear.

Even she couldn’t convince herself that she’d chosen them to make herself feel good—which they  _ did _ —instead of solely for the effect of appealing to man’s visual inclinations—which it was. 

After a quick fluff of her hair and a quick application of a sheer gloss, the Portkey glowed an iridescent blue, and Hermione scooped it up just in time to be whisked away.

When the Portkey arrived, she had to take a moment to orient herself.

She'd expected a posh, upscale restaurant somewhere in Diagon Alley or a fancy wizarding locale she wasn’t privy to. In her myriad imagined scenarios, Malfoy had paid the wait staff handsomely to ensure that they had a table in the back, away from the prying eyes of the public.

Instead, she landed in what appeared to be a study. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, and a wooden lectern was stacked high with note-strewn parchment.

The momentary disappointment that had flickered through her was replaced with all the more intrigue.

Leave it to Draco Malfoy to keep her guessing. 

"I'm glad to see Blaise didn't frighten you away." 

Malfoy spoke behind her, his voice low and honeyed. Slowly, she turned, taking in the simple planes of the desk he sat behind. Beside the desk, a table had been set with a fine white tablecloth and two singular pillar candles, the scene overlooking a large window, through which she could see the sun setting. The candles smelled sweet, tempered only by the savory herb smell of cooked chicken and roasted potatoes.

A simple meal, though presented impeccably.

Hermione wondered if Malfoy had chosen it to suit her tastes. 

Finally, she tipped her head at him, eyeing him critically. "I thought it rude to stand up an offer," she answered smoothly, pushing as much intention into her stride as she could when she approached the table. The antique rugs muffled her steps. 

If Malfoy was pleased that she had turned up, he didn't give much indication beyond a single dip of his head. "Welcome to my home. It's not the manor, but I assumed you wouldn't take to it, given its history." 

She didn't deign it with a response, but privately she was grateful for the foresight. The evening was already largely in question in her mind even with her admitted intrigue, and she wasn’t not sure how she would have handled it had the Portkey deposited her at Malfoy Manor.

"In any case, it's only gentlemanly of me to offer to help you to your seat." He rounded the desk in slow, even strides, and Hermione would have thought him stalking her if she hadn't recognised it for what it was after so long working with creatures whose very existence was considered a threat.

Purposeful. Clear. He didn't want to frighten her. 

When he reached the table, he didn't so much as reach out to touch her. Instead, his hands settled on either side of the chair. Only when she crossed the room and settled comfortably against its high back did he move, carefully pushing her forwards. Even then, his hands didn't so much as brush against her.

Silence fell between them as he took his seat and pushed himself towards the table. "There are only two courses tonight, I'm afraid, unless you count dessert." He gestured to the food between them. "A simple dinner salad, roasted chicken, and potatoes. I'm afraid it's one of the few recipes I've become proficient at." 

Hermione blanched, studying the food skeptically. "You cooked this? I expected elves."

"I don't employ house-elves," he simply answered, tucking into his food. “Water? Or wine? Domaine aux Moines Savennieres pairs well with chicken, in my experience.”

“Water. Please,” she added, thoroughly rocked. Best not to indulge in alcohol with her mind already hazy, she watched as he poured them both generous glasses of water and began eating. Hermione followed suit. It wasn't divine, but it was edible, and it was nice to enjoy a robust meal that put the paltry dishes she managed after work to shame. The warmth of it eased some of her tension as she ate, and she sipped from the water before her. "So you've asked me here to—"

"Tell me about your life outside the Ministry, Granger," Malfoy interrupted, resting his silverware on either side of his plate. "Do you do anything outside of work?"

Hermione frowned, chewing her food. He studied her, gaze intense until she swallowed. "I—what does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal," he answered, taking a sip from his wine glass. "I assume Blaise presented a brief picture of the reason I’ve asked you to join me?” She didn’t deny it, so he continued. “If this is to work, and if you accept, of course, it's important for me to know where I would fit into your life."

_ Where he would fit into her life. _

He said it so simply... like they were dating and discussing a major life change as they integrated their schedules and interests to best accommodate the other. 

"I go to work. I go home." She swallowed, cutting her gaze away. "That's the gist." 

Malfoy eyed her critically. "There's got to be more to it than that. According to Zabini, you're seeing the McLaggen bloke from school. The one who plays for the Falcons. 

Surprise was a physical presence in her, fisting the nerves in her chest and sending her pulse racing. He’d done his homework. Perhaps that’s why he’d looked so pleased in the lift with Cormac. “I am—for a couple years now. We live together… but he’s gone more often than he’s home. Quidditch keeps him busy.”

The excuse fell flat even to her ears, but Malfoy took a careful sip of his water in the silence. 

“And are you happy with him?” he pressed, face blank save for the light in his eyes as he studied her.

She squirmed in her seat, reluctant to give him the answer that he wanted. No, of course she wasn’t happy with Cormac. Anyone with eyes could see it if they happened to look for longer than five minutes; the problem was that no one looked beyond the surface, and Hermione had grown adept at hiding that which wasn’t flattering from the public eye. Finally, she settled on, “It’s complicated.” 

Malfoy hummed his response, studying her. “And how often does he contribute to the finances that you’re both supposed to share?”

Irritation flickered in her that he saw so clearly through the facade she put up. “What does it matter?”

“This arrangement will only thrive under honesty, Granger,” he said. Though the words were biting, his soft tone tempered their sting.

On a great exhale, Hermione whispered, “None of it.” 

Several emotions chased over his face, though he managed to temper them before he spoke. “The bloke makes loads of money playing Quidditch, but he doesn’t help you—his girlfriend, with whom he shares a home—pay for any of it?” 

“He’s not home often,” Hermione responded weakly, staring down at the food growing cold before her. “It’s not his obligation—I’m perfectly capable of taking care of it myself.”

He took another bite of his chicken, gaze cutting away before he shattered her resolve with his next sentence. “I’m sure you can, but are you? Can you honestly tell me that you’re thriving in the circumstances you’ve been living in? How often do you allow yourself a singular moment to indulge in something just because you want it?”

Hermione was shocked silent. Not at the way he’d ambushed her—though that was part of it—but at the ease with which he’d managed to deconstruct everything she’d worked to build up around herself over the last few years. She prided herself on the polished image she presented to the world, and in just one dinner—and perhaps even before this dinner—Malfoy had seen past it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she deflected, looking anywhere but at him.

A dry laugh escaped Malfoy. “I don’t mean to be an arse—truly, I have no intention of being rude—but that’s absolute bullshit. You said it yourself: you go to work, you go home. Occasionally you go out for drinks with friends. You’re entirely aware of your boyfriend taking advantage of your home while he’s out fooling around with who knows how many other witches and wizards, but you won’t do anything about that. All your money goes to supporting yourself and his cheating habit while you put your desires on hold time and time again.” His eyes flashed. “Why?”

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, refusing to answer him. 

"Granger, how much of your life do you have absolute control over?" Malfoy stared her down across the table. 

Determination was a force as it rippled from him, and she rose to the bait. "All of it," she snapped, laying her silverware down with a loud clatter. "Every single thing needs to go exactly as I plan for it. At least staying with Cormac means I know what I’m getting out of the relationship; I can control my expectations with him, which means I can control the outcome, even if it means being miserable. Because any time I don't have that control, it goes to shit. "

Silence descended between them, both of them shocked at the vehemency of her statement. 

Of the vitriol she'd managed to convey in it.

She thought Malfoy would end the meal and turn her out on the street, effectively ending the potential for whatever his request for her presence was for. Perhaps that would be for the best. They were volatile together; Hermione had had her fill of turbulent relationships.

Instead, Malfoy smiled.

"One chance," he whispered, barely audible over the flicker of the candles. "Give me one chance to prove to you just how nice it can be to let go. To give up that control, to have someone care for you the way you’re meant to be cared for." 

Trepidation stiffened her spine until it was ramrod straight. "What are you offering?" 

"The opportunity to let go. To let someone prove to you what you're missing. What  _ he _ isn't giving you." His palms landed flat up on the table before him. "I have all the money in the world, Granger, and more than enough time. Whatever you want from me, name it. It's yours." 

Hermione waited for the laughter to start. For someone to jump out at her and tell her that it was nothing more than a prank, a scheme that Malfoy had concocted to make her realise how inferior she'd been all these years, that his casual indifference towards her had been nothing more than a drawn-out ploy to lull her into a false sense of security. 

It didn't come.

If anything, the tension grew between them. Unspooling and sparking like an electrical coil that linked her directly to Malfoy.

And against all odds and rationally outlined arguments that her incredibly logical mind was capable of producing even under emotional distress or bewilderment, Hermione found herself considering his offer. 

She drummed her fingernails on the tabletop, the only outward sign of her nerves. "And what do you want from this—understanding?"

The question side-stepped him, but he took it in stride. "That’s a loaded question, Granger," he muttered, but he pushed himself upright and rounded the table, careful once more not to touch her. 

He paused behind her chair, his presence oppressive and alluring at once. 

When he spoke, Hermione jumped.

"I want whatever you're willing to give me, Hermione," he whispered, breath gusting over her ear and sending shivers down her spine. Her given name sounded foreign in his voice, but she found herself drawn to it, leaning back into it, but then he was gone, pulling out the chair alongside hers as his expression sobered. It didn’t quell the heat in his gaze. "You're in a relationship, and I respect that, even if I don’t respect the tosser you’re with."

Hermione couldn't help her flinch at his unspoken jab.  _ He _ respected that. Something told her that he knew Cormac didn't. 

"And what if I told you that I didn't want you to respect it?" 

Her breath caught in her throat, instantly flushing at her insinuation. That she would be willing to leave Cormac or worse— 

But he'd left her a long time ago, hadn't he?

Maybe not physically, but emotionally. He hadn’t been present emotionally in over a year. 

His pupils blew wide, and Malfoy swallowed, his Adam's apple working up and back down his throat. Just beneath the collar of his oxford, his sternocleidomastoid jumped.

She wondered what his skin would taste like if she were to trace it with her tongue. 

Briefly, she considered that he might have slipped her a potion to induce the sudden onset of lust assaulting her, but it would be unfair to both of them if she hid behind a flimsy excuse. Malfoy saw her—saw what she wanted, what she  _ needed _ —and was offering it to her. 

It was as refreshing as it was terrifying. 

"Be very careful what you ask for," he rasped. His attention was rapt on her, carefully cataloguing her every move, and for the first time that she could remember in recent history, Hermione felt powerful outside of the courtroom. 

Like a magnet between them, Hermione found herself leaning forwards, ignoring the voice in her mind that sounded suspiciously like Harry's mother henning, warning her that snakes bit. 

If Malfoy wanted to bite her, she was sure she'd let him right now. 

"Sleep on it," he ground out, eyes fluttering shut as he stood and forcibly extricated himself from the tension between them. 

His sudden movement was like a bucket of cold water tossed on her, and Hermione heaved in a breath, desperate to drag him back to her.

As wrong as she knew it was, it was good to be wanted. 

Like the gentleman Malfoy claimed to be, he escorted her to the door of his flat. The door opened smoothly, revealing a finely-carpeted hallway that led to a lift. "Here," he said, pressing another hair clip into her hand, this one lined with sapphire stones that likely cost more than her rent. "A Portkey. If, after you’ve thought about what we’ve discussed, you choose to accept everything we've talked about, I'd like for you to accompany me to the gala tomorrow night." 

Hermione blanched, disbelief running through her. "Malfoy, I can't. There will be photographers there. It's a  _ Ministry _ event—" 

"In a  _ professional _ capacity. It would be suspicious if we avoided talking to one another given our partnering on the creature rights case," he uttered, his gaze dipping to her lips. 

Flustered, she gaped up at him. “The… you’re not on that case.”

A feral smile unfurled on Malfoy’s face. “It’s no secret that the Ministry is reluctant to fund the research needed in accompaniment of the legislature—you need funding to secure data that will convince voters, and I have the money.”

Hermione’s mind whirled, trying to follow the implications of his assistance on the case and whatever would become of the proposition she was sure she’d accept. "Right. And it's not against the fraternisation policy because—" 

"We aren't employed by the same company. And by the time this comes to light—if we choose to go public at any time, which is entirely at your discretion—then the case will have already been completed." He was far more confident than Hermione felt, but she nodded, carefully backing down the hallway.

"I'll think about it, then," she promised, suddenly anxious under his stare in the bright light of the hallway. 

"Do that," he said, stepping back into his flat. She was nearly to the lift when he called, quiet in the silence, "Goodnight, Granger." 

The doors dinged open and she stepped in, her heart racing in her chest. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

* * *

When she arrived back at her flat, it was empty again. 

Thank Merlin for small blessings. 

Hermione discarded her purse and coat in a pile by the door and flopped into the chair. Malfoy's Portkey lay limply in her lap, full of implications she wasn't sure she could process right now.

She went through the motions of preparing for bed: carefully discarding her pencil skirt and blouse in the basket for the wash, cleansing her face of the scant amount of makeup she’d applied that morning, and carefully plaiting her hair so she wouldn’t wake with it in a mess.

All the while, she couldn’t get Malfoy’s promises from her mind.

Let him take care of her. Let go for a while. It would be okay.

She hadn’t been okay for a very long time, and maybe that was why she’d so readily accepted. It was a relief to feel  _ seen _ , even if it was by Draco Malfoy.

Properly prepared for bed and mind still in overload, Hermione padded to her bed, intent on tucking in with a book when pecking at the window drew her attention.

On the ledge, a large, downy-feathered eagle owl balanced, staring back at her with a package tied neatly to its leg.

She didn't need to be the brightest witch of her age to guess who had sent it. 

Carefully, she unlatched her window and allowed the creature in. It didn't delay, hopping over the sill and onto the perch as it extended its leg. As soon as she’d removed the package, it took off into the night, not even waiting for a treat for a job well done. 

Hermione scooped the package into her arms, marveling at how light it was despite its size. She settled back among the covers before she loosened the bow securing the top.

A card was nestled over the tissue paper, blank save for a golden _M_ flourished across the bottom right-hand corner.

Inside, the missive was short.

_ Granger, _

_ If you decide to attend with me, please wear this dress.  _ _   
_ _ Meet me beside the fountain in the Atrium at half six. _

_ D.M. _

Carefully, she unwrapped the tissue paper surrounding the small bundle. Inside, a deep, midnight blue gown winked up at her, and she stifled a small gasp.

Like the hair clips, the dress easily cost more than her rent, stunning in its simplicity, and Hermione was suddenly stricken with the thought that Malfoy had anticipated her acceptance.

Damn him for knowing her better than she knew herself—a thought she didn’t dare examine too closely as she hung the dress in the back of her closet lest Cormac come home unexpectedly. 

The wizard was trouble, and Hermione fell asleep with anticipation and guilt warring in her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiii, me again! This has been sitting in my docs nearly completed for like a month, so I decided I'd wrap it up today and post it! This fic still has no update schedule & is not being alpha or beta read; as such, all mistakes are my own. It's mostly just something fun and smutty to type away at when the muse allows. Thanks for reading and sticking around despite how erratic the updates are! You guys are the bomb :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so if you made it here then hello and please don't judge me lol  
> I needed something fun to write and get outta my head with everything going on, so mindless smut it was! I have not planned this beyond a hazy mental outline at all and have no update schedule, so if that's not your thing, I get it. I got the idea to do this from LadyKenz347, who also alpha read this before I posted because I was scared lol. In addition, this has not been beta read. Any remaining errors are my own.  
> The title of this fic comes from a semi-autobiographical novel first published in Paris in 1971 by an anonymous author. It will not, however, be based on that book. The first line was inspired by the opening lyric of the Halsey song “Strange Love.”


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